


The silent cries of Nightingales

by Jackson_T



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Escape, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Hair Braiding, Hair-pulling, Heahmund is still a warrior, Hurt/Comfort, Ivar is weak, Ivar lives in Kiev, Loss of Control, Loss of Trust, Love/Hate, M/M, Memories, Past Relationship(s), Rough Body Play, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Sexual Content, Slavery, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Suffering, Unhealthy Relationships, living in a cage, suffocation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-21 01:28:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30014040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackson_T/pseuds/Jackson_T
Summary: After losing the battle for Kattegat, Ivar ends up in Kiev where he lives in Prince Oleg's palace. But appearances are deceptive: More than ever, Ivar feels crushed and trapped, and sees no longer any way out of his situation. However, one day, almost drowned in the dull everyday life, a man comes into his life whom he had believed for years to be dead...
Relationships: Bjorn & Hvitserk & Ivar & Sigurd & Ubbe (Vikings), Bjorn & Ivar (Vikings), Heahmund & Ivar (Vikings), Heahmund/Ivar (Vikings), Ivar & Oleg (Vikings), Ivar & Ragnar Lothbrok, Ivar/Oleg (Vikings)
Comments: 37
Kudos: 36





	1. Prolog

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my story!   
> Inspired by Season 6, I felt like I had to bring Oleg into the game because I actually find the man extremely interesting. You can play a lot with this incredibly variable character, and let's see where this story takes us!  
> There should be updates once a week, but I don't know if on a fixed day. When I use Russian words, they are explained / translated in the notes below.
> 
> I know that some things are historically incorrect and I would ask that you simply overlook them. Vodka hadn't been invented at the time, and I don't know if some of the dishes were by then that will be served. But these are only little things. I don't stick to the plot of the series, just very vaguely - I'll leave out some characters like Katya / Freydis because I find them superfluous for my story. I would be very happy to receive feedback, because I always find communication very nice! Have fun reading and see you next week.

** Prolog **

Ivar’s fingers gently slid over the almost full glass with the dark, heavy wine in it. The alcoholic drink looked almost like a glass full of velvet in the light, and Ivar turned it briefly in the light of the chandelier, before bringing the glass to his mouth with his hand and taking a long, breathless sip from it. He had gotten used to the wine by now - it was nothing new that it was served here with a brewed liquor called _vodka_ , with almost every meal Ivar had with the Prince of Kiev.

After he had swallowed, Ivar put the glass down and set it on the table. His gaze slid over to the other side of the table, where Oleg was sitting across from him, cutting a piece of goose meat. Slowly his eyes wandered over the powerful hands that held the cutlery and cut the meat so small that it would fit perfectly in the mouth. Oleg didn't seem to notice that Ivar was watching him, because he just kept eating. Maybe he didn't want to see him at all, Ivar wasn't exactly sure. He had never been able to read the monarch's expression or thoughts, and it was generally more difficult for him to capture the various moods of this man at the moment.

Oleg was an incredibly changeable man and always had been since Ivar had been laid at his feet. There were days and weeks when the prince of the _Rus_ Empire was wonderfully light-footed, lovable and kind. There were days when he read every wish from Ivar’s eyes - Ivar didn't even have to open his mouth, neither laughing nor torn, to get exactly what his heart wanted. The Prophet, that's what they called him and he himself. Stormy, strong and stubborn like the deep winter in Kiev, which Ivar did not disdain. He had loved the cold of winter before; it had always been his favorite time of the year. In winter there were warm fires to roast meat on, and the huts and markets smelled of fresh, dried _anise_.

“You look thoughtful and you haven't eaten much. Don't you like it?” Oleg’s deep but pleasant voice swung over to him. Ivar looked up softly, and his fingers clutched the heavy glass of dark wine again. He had never felt bad or uncomfortable under Oleg’s gaze, and so it didn't seem bad to him that the cool prince even put his cutlery aside. Ivar sighed slightly, took the glass from the table with a slight swivel, held it in his slightly clammy fingers, before gesturing a little in Oleg’s direction.

“It tastes great, as always. So, you don't need to have anyone killed, like last week with the _борщ_.", Ivar replied mildly. He put a soft smile on his lips, charming, so that Oleg would not misunderstand him. At first the prince's eyebrows rose slightly, but then he let out a deep laugh, melodious and rough. Ivar liked Oleg’s voice very much - it was masculine and matched his ardent temperament, which Ivar knew very well by now.

“You speak very well now, Ivar. Just the pronunciation, you find it difficult. We both have very rough languages."

“I like it more when we don't talk in Russian. You have too many sibilants. I don’t like them."

“Stubborn as always, little _дьявол_. Still, I see that your head is not empty. What's on your mind?"

Ivar sipped his wine. The heavy taste drowned his tongue in gentle bitterness for a moment, before he turned his gaze back to Oleg. The great _Rus_ looked amused - Ivar knew exactly that he always liked deviations from everyday life, which was why the two quarreled quite often.

"What are we doing here, Oleg?" Ivar hummed softly. His glass of wine was almost empty and with a gentle movement he put it back on the table. Oleg’s brown, clear eyes followed this movement with a slight grin that was lost playfully in his dark beard.

"We eat."

"I do not mean that."

"What do you mean then?"

Ivar sighed softly. "How should I explain it... Look, I think I know what is bothering me. You are busy ruling all day, but I, I am a Viking. I need variety. I need something to pass the time, because as you surely know, I do not rule here."

"Don't you have enough distraction at night?"

Ivar swallowed lightly. His thoughts drifted briefly to the nights that he knew very well that Oleg was carrying them in his thick head right now. Nights full of lust, nights in which Ivar almost choked on lust when Oleg’s rough hands wound around his neck and throat and brought him close to the delicious feeling of suffocation. Ivar needed this suffocation. It had become his kind of routine to cope with the leaden everyday life at the prince's side. He didn't want enemies because he was _alone_. Alone in a country with which he only shared deep, old roots, nothing else. Alone in a country where the cold was not only outside in the courtyard, but also inside the hearts of the people. He did not know the _Rus_ well enough to be able to judge them, and his brilliant mind failed in recognizing their abilities. He judged them carefully - they were capricious, like Oleg, and Oleg was dangerous.

He held himself weakly at his side, because he was safe with him. But he lived in a cage. Granted, in a golden one, but there were thick golden rods that penned him up. Like his father so many years ago. So many years that his heart had stopped counting.

"I don't mean that, you know that very well." Ivar snarled.

Oleg smiled slightly. He picked up the cutlery that he had set aside and used it to cut into the finely cooked goose meat again. The meat was so tender it almost crumbled, and Ivar had really enjoyed the two bites he'd tasted of it. But his stomach was sore with other worries.

“So, you want something to do for the day. You can deal with Igor, huh? He likes your company."

"He's a child, Oleg."

“Don't we have any slaves in the house who can play this weird game with you? You really wanted me to get you one, what's the name again- "

Ivar bit his lip. "Hnefatafl.", he said curtly.

"Yes, that. Why don't you look for someone who can play it with you?"

“Because not everyone can do it. It's a strategic game and you have to have something in mind to understand it."

Oleg brought a piece of goose meat to his mouth and chewed calmly. His gaze was fixed from Ivar’s eyes to the table, as if there was a suitable answer to Ivar’s requests, but it wasn't long before the prince's eyes lifted again.

“We'll see what can be done. One of our troops will be back next week after their attack at the northern slopes of one of the Arab countries. Maybe they have smarter slaves at hand who will take away your boredom during the day.” Oleg’s tone changed slightly. Ivar could feel the slight, barely noticeable transition into an impatient emotional state, and he had to bite his tongue a little to keep himself from snippy comments.

He had been here long enough now, he could no longer count the nights and moons, to know when he was pushing Oleg’s limits of patience. The first time he hadn't stopped and had replied cheekily, Oleg had hit him so hard that Ivar had felt still dizzy the next day. For weeks he had had a violet on his cheek, just under his fine scar, although a servant had brought him fresh ginger immediately, fine slices of it, so that Ivar could put them on his cheek. It had been the first time in his life that he had felt weak. He was strong, he was a Viking, he was _Ivar the Boneless_ \- but here, in the dead snow of Kiev and in the great land of the _Rus_ , he was nobody. There were stories about him, but no one had ever seen and experienced him. Nobody had seen his glory days, bloodied and wild and full of anger in the stomach. Nobody knew his reign of terror, his urge to burn people at festivals until the whole village smelled of rotten and scorched meat. Here in Kiev, he, Ivar, was nothing more than a puppet of the prince. And if he wouldn’t be this pretty puppet, he would have been dead several times. Whether through hunger, cold or enmity.

Oleg had taken him in because Oleg knew his story and valued it. Oleg had loved his stories about the raids, he had listened to them almost amused with sweet berry wine sitting at the grave of his dead wife. He had taken in Ivar when no one had believed in him anymore, not even himself. But what had become of him?

In these moments Ivar became awfully aware of the situation he was in now, and with absolutely no way out. From the tough Viking to the doll of a _Rus_. Lost all chances on _Valhalla_ , thrown away because he was sure not to die in a fight.

For a moment this realization cast a bitter shadow over his mind, and his clear vision blurred slightly as he watched Oleg take the last bites of his flesh. From the light vein on the back of his hand, Ivar saw that Oleg was a little irritable inside - one wrong word at this point could mean a lot. It could trigger an argument, it could trigger a punch and brute force, it could trigger sex. But now, here at the table, Ivar wasn't after any of these things.

So, he kept his mouth shut.

His fingers gently brushed over the sumptuous cloak he was wearing, ran over the pretty, well-sewn gold threads. He lacked for nothing here; he wore silk, he could do what he wanted. Only he could not be himself.

"I'll be back very late tonight," Oleg said after a while. His voice sounded a little rougher, even rougher than before, and Ivar nodded slightly as he raised his head and looked at Oleg.

The great _Rus_ got up from the table and straightened his robe again before walking to Ivar’s side of the table with his always heavy-looking steps. Before he left, he stopped in front of Ivar.

Ivar looked up. His blue eyes focused on Oleg’s face, slid over his beard and straight nose, over the roughly curved eyebrows, and ended with the hazel-brown eyes, which looked at him with a kind of slight melancholy. Ivar knew, however, that underneath there was anger and resentment.

"It's okay, I'll wait for you then." Ivar said softly, and with a soft exhalation he felt Oleg's hand running over his head. Today Ivar wore his hair braided again, he had got used to it since he no longer had to go to battles in the morning or in the afternoon. It was a simple, gray pastime against the empty boredom that overtook him before lunch at the latest, and by now he was really good at it. More than once he had sat in front of a mirror, a real russian _зеркало_ , and praised himself for it. No shieldmaiden could have done it that way. He didn't care that the _Rus_ looked at his hair with mockery rather than astonishment - they wore their hair short, short like Oleg’s. Only Ivar had kept his tradition and braided his hair almost every day. Every third day he shaved the sides of his head with a golden knife to keep the classic Viking hairstyle. He'd never put so much emphasis on his hair before, but in a way, it was all he had left of his old life. On this point he held on so desperately that no slave or woman was ever allowed to put a hand on his hair. Only Oleg was allowed to do it - he could undo the braids if he wanted. When on some evenings he preferred to want Ivar’s hair long and free so that he might bury his hands in it or grab a full head of hair and pull on it. Depending on which position they shared in bed.

Oleg’s fingers lingered on his head for a while, and Ivar blinked slightly.

“I will not forget your wish. Do not worry. Are you that good and get us the good _vodka_ from the kitchen for tonight? The strong one, you know ", the prince said, and Ivar put on a slight smile and nodded obediently.

" _Да_ _,_ _мой_ _принц_."

"Good, Ivar." Oleg smiled broadly when Ivar uttered these words, albeit with his harsh, nordic accent, which he still wore and probably always would. Only then did Oleg walk heavily out of the room without closing the door behind him.

Ivar paused in the ornate room for a while. It was large and adorned with many wonderful murals showing the history of the _Rus_. Almost like his people, only that he missed the many temples and mountains and festivals, the annual trips to _Uppsala_.

After a while, with a soft sigh, Ivar pushed himself up on his black, metal crutch and pulled his heavy body to his feet. As in all these years, they were still hardly usable. The coins he had received from father’s _Valhalla_ dowry such long time ago, with which he had paid the blacksmith to make the crutch and the leg brace, had more than paid off. How many years had these hard supports, the leg splint and his crutch accompanied him, and how often had they made a life up here possible for him?

And not clumsy on the floor. Sometimes it was like he owed these things to Ragnar - but the thought of his father still hurt him after so many years. Even today Ivar had an inward, violent fear of snakes in his blood, even if many people had already told him that he looked like one himself when he crept around on the floor.

It was pleasantly cool in the vaulted cellar that led to the palace's large kitchens. A lot of people worked down here, and Ivar knew the things they said behind his back; but for fear of Oleg, they were always kind to him. Ivar dragged himself laboriously across the large stone floor, which sometimes reminded him of the thick stone slabs from the castles of England, and after a while he arrived in the kitchen with a slight groan.

“I need _vodka_. The good one, you already know which one.", he said to a fat maid whom he had known since his first day here. She was old, but not too old to be easy-going - she reminded Ivar of his mother sometimes, but only from the heart. Because she looked at him like a child, and she saw his pain when it was one of _those_ days again when there seemed to be no remedy for Ivar’s internal cramps. Her name was Irina.

"Ah, да. We still have it there.” She immediately went to the little corner where the _vodka_ was stored; when she put the bottle on the table in front of Ivar, she propped her hands on the rough wooden board and looked at him.

"Are you all right?" She spoke a little _Norse_ , albeit brokenly and with a strong Russian accent - Ivar had always wondered if she came from anywhere near his country, but he had never dared to ask. For fear that Oleg would find out and dismiss it as treason. And Oleg was the only thing that kept him alive here.

"Of course, why shouldn't I?"

"You seem sad."

“Irina, I'm fine. Don't always be so worried! Who of us wears gold here, you or me?”, Ivar snarled and laughed lightly when Irina hit him lightly with the bottle of _vodka_.

"Who of us needs fresh ginger on some days?"

Ivar snorted and looked away. He hated it when people could see through him or the routines of his everyday life, and this time too he took the _vodka_ wordlessly with his free hand and left the kitchen with an amused chuckle, even if the frustration and pain burned so hard in his throat that he wanted to yell it all out. The strong _vodka_ and the late night, Ivar knew what that meant. Ivar knew Oleg, and Oleg liked to numb some things before doing them to someone.

_Where once was light_

_Now darkness falls_

_Where once was love_

_Love is no more_


	2. Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new week, a new update. This one is coming a bit faster, the next one will follow next week.

**Choices**

Lost in thought, Ivar ran his hands through his loose hair. His head lay still and cold on the silky pillow, which he had previously patted for himself lightly. It was completely silent - only Oleg’s deep breath and the slight snoring could be heard. Ivar knew that the snoring was from the _vodka_ , from too much of it. Even now, Ivar was still feeling slightly dizzy from drinking just as much to put up with Oleg’s bad mood.

If Oleg’s mind was heated or something did not suit him in everyday life, he became hard. He was rough and tough in his words, he got rough from the movements, and Ivar could see the internal anger boiling up in every look he made. Sometimes it was the little things that irritated the prince - like slow servants, or that he did not like something about the food which was always served warm to him. Sometimes he got upset about certain political things that Ivar didn't understand - because he didn't pursue them either. What should he be thinking about it? Only when words like the _north_ or _Scandinavia_ were sometimes mentioned, he listened, with his heart beating so violently that it sometimes even hurt.

But he had long since lost touch with his homeland. He still remembered exactly how he had been driven away by his brothers full of anger and hatred, how he had lost the battle for Kattegat. With a slight sigh he remembered the words Bjorn had thrown at his head that time, which he had accused their people of. It was these little things that Ivar kept thinking about and that happened in his mind's eye at least every two nights. The whitish war paint on Bjorn’s face and the way he had screwed up his mouth. Ivar clearly remembered the sound of his brother's voice - rough and desperate, hoarse from screaming, from commanding the troops. And Ivar had stood on the wooden protective barricade and had looked down at him, and their gazes had not been those of brothers. Bjorn had spat on the floor; it had made Ivar feel terrible, empty and hurt. He had never been so fond of Bjorn, they had always been strangers somehow. But seeing him like this, with all that throbbing anger in his eyes had hurt Ivar deeply, although he had never admitted it to anyone, not even to himself. His hands had grasped a bow, had torn the bow from a warrior's hands behind him, and he had harnessed an arrow. He could still remember the feel of the feathers between his fingers - they had been rough and a little bit soiled with mud. The creaking of the bow near his ear went through his body up to this day, that bittersweet, soft creak when he had pointed the bow and arrow at Bjorn, ice-cold from his point.

They had still looked at each other - for a few moments, in which Bjorn’s mouth had been opened with stiffness. He has always had the same stubbornness in his eyes and his heart as Ivar, and for that Ivar had always hated and loved him deeply. But frozen from all the pain inside him, he had stretched his arm far back, focused his eyes and shot the arrow straight into the direction of his oldest brother.

It had landed so close to Bjorn's feet that the crowd behind him had gasped in shock. Ivar had seen hatred in his brother's eyes, hatred so pulsing that it only had made him feel angrier. He had reached blindly behind him, commanded for another arrow, and clamped this one too. Bjorn had stopped at first, stiff and rigid, like the fool he was - but when Ivar had pointed the second arrow at him, he had started to run. Ivar had narrowly missed his verses, so narrowly that he had seen the dirt splash up Bjorn’s leg.

From then on it had not taken long until his fall, because from then on, the people had stirred up against him.

His appearance in Kiev a few weeks later had been a wonderful day for Oleg at the time, when Ivar had only seen himself as a lonely man with a long beard. Their relationship then had been full of joy, and Ivar had felt important again in a long time, and somehow respected. Until the gray daily routine had moved in and Ivar had been aware of the cage he was living in - trapped by the Russian prince.

But again and again his thoughts drifted off to the events in his past, there were so many things that today he wondered if he had done the right thing. He hadn't felt a thirst for blood in a long time, hadn't rammed an ax in anyone's face for a long time. He had grown soft, soft and fed with the money and gold of the _Rus_. And these thoughts literally ate him up.

With a soft exhale, Ivar turned to the other side. Oleg had his back turned towards him, and through the falling moonlight from the nicely decorated windows, Ivar could see the scratches and cracks of his own nails on the prince's skin. The streaks went from the upper, hard muscles down to the shoulder blades, and only a few of the scratches were lost on Oleg’s lower body. It still were the same scratches Ivar had always made on him every time they had been united. In the beginning, when their tender love for each other had developed, Ivar had done it out of fear. He had never gotten really intimate with anyone before Oleg, and the first few times with Oleg had terribly intimidated him, even if he had only looked shaky on the outside. But for that time Oleg was someone else - he had been gentle, he had given Ivar time to let himself into these new feelings, and he had spoiled him so much. Ivar often thought back to the first times when he had come from Oleg's gentle touches and soft thrusts, making him able to perceive such intense pleasure with his body. And over time that tenderness had turned into a tough game, like a creeping process.

Ivar knew that Oleg was very fond of this brutality between them, which had arisen some while ago. Ivar had had problems with it in the beginning; it had cost him a great deal of strength to lie under the heavy man and to endure this rough harshness. He had had to swallow his tears as he had so often done, and the thought had occurred to him so often during sex that he could no longer do this. He had hardly any feelings between his legs, and actual sexual intercourse wasn't the problem - the problem was Oleg’s addiction to compensate for everything in bed that had irritated him during the day. The prince was tough, and he was tough with Ivar’s body. Ivar had only gotten used to it because one day he had discovered that the easiest way to have sex was when Oleg put his strong hands around his neck and squeezed.

At first Oleg had been afraid of hurting him and accidentally killing him - but that had subsided when they had found their rhythm. So, at some point the Russian prince knew what pressure he had to use to squeeze Ivar’s larynx in order to arouse pleasure in him. And Ivar enjoyed the moments when he could not breathe because it always separated his mind from his body. In those moments he didn't even think about how much he really missed his homeland, or the gentle burning in his stomach because he missed his brothers. Because it simply numbed how much he missed his language, his people. In those moments, Ivar was just physically present. He felt the rush of his own blood in his ears, he felt how Oleg’s hands were pressed so tightly around his neck that there was only this warm pressure and the gasping for air that brought so much of the wonderful dizziness. Sometimes, very rarely, Ivar came from suffocating. But mostly it was just Oleg who drew his lust from these nightly activities, while Ivar was just happy to be able to turn his head off.

Only to look at his own bitter face in the mirror again the next morning and to braid his hair as if he were still in Kattegat, with the sweet smell of fire and the salty sea in his nose.

This routine did not break off the next morning either. Oleg woke him with a slight bite on the neck; the teeth gnawed at Ivar’s skin until the Viking turned around with a slight grumble and looked Oleg in the face, still slightly sleepy. The prince wore a smile this morning, and Ivar returned it wearily.

"Good Morning."

“Good morning, Oleg. Did you sleep well?"

“Like a baby, like always. The _vodka_ really always does exactly what it should. Today is going to be a good day, I can feel it in my bones."

"Why?" Ivar asked softly; his fingers reached into Oleg’s short, somewhat coarse hair, and he lightly ran his fingertips through the prince's thick beard. Oleg’s brown eyes lingered on Ivar’s tired face for a while until he opened his mouth slightly with a gentle exhalation.

“Because one of our troops is coming back today. I am curious what they have brought back from their raids in the Arab countries. Most of the time they bring good spices, gold, and good slaves. They're not pretty, but they're good for work. They could widen the trench."

"Why do you want to widen the trench?"

"You never know. These are difficult times. There is talk on the Silk Road that war will break out again, from the north."

Ivar propped himself up slightly with his elbows on the soft bed and looked at Oleg with slightly knitted eyebrows. He saw exactly how Oleg’s fingers brushed his bared, still well-shaped chest, but he was less interested in that. “From the north? You don't mean Scandinavia, do you?"

Oleg kissed the base of Ivar’s collarbone and drew in the scent of the skin there; only then did he look up in amusement. “Oh yes, Scandinavia. I have to speak to my general today, I currently don't even know which people are on the throne there."

"Hm." was all that came over Ivar’s full lips at that moment. It didn't really suit him that now the north got into conversation, and certainly not with the thought of who would be sitting on the throne. He had so many faces and names in his head, ghosts of the past, and it was heartbreaking to be reminded that he still had brothers up there. Were they all still alive? Was Hvitserk still alive, and what about Bjorn and Ubbe? Actually, he had always been sure that he would have felt one of their deaths, just as Odin had appeared to him back then to tell him about his father's death. He had always believed that the sons of Ragnar Lothbrok shared an inner bond, because they all had noble and divine blood. But the longer he was in Kiev, in the land of the _Rus_ , the more blurred his past and thus his connection to his brothers, it seemed to him. Like a bad dream he had had once, and which only distracted him a little from the paralyzing reality.

"I thought you might be interested in that."

"I am, of course. I was just amazed. I'm not sure how it all went back then.", Ivar replied weakly, and his fingers ran gently through Oleg's hair again.

“You will notice that. I have big plans.", Oleg mumbled dully and warmly against his skin, and Ivar tried to resist the inner urge to twist his fingers into fists on Oleg's head. It wasn't worth the trouble, and it was always a good and extremely generous day when Oleg got up in a good mood.

"Then I'm very excited, _мой_ _принц_."

“Well, let's get up. Braid your hair like yesterday, alright? That looked really beautiful."

Ivar smiled slightly and nodded before Oleg gave him one last kiss on the forehead and then got up to get dressed.

Ivar waited to get up until Oleg had disappeared from the room, because he wanted to have some peace, before he dressed in his well-fitting, everyday costume and put on a dull smile so as not to attract any negative attention in this cold palace. So, after a while he crawled out of bed and pulled himself over to the small stool in front of the mirror without a crutch or leg brace.

When he had sat down comfortably, he ran his hands lightly over the sides of his skull - the little hair had grown a lot again, so he had to shave it if he didn't want to look wild today. With a mechanical movement, he reached into the wooden box and pulled out the golden knife, which was incredibly artfully crafted and which Oleg had given him as a present at the beginning. The gold material felt heavy and cool in his hand, and for a moment Ivar just stared at the knife. The edges were sharp, so infinitely sharp that they could cut into skin quickly and precisely. Ivar squeezed his hand very lightly, just so lightly that he could feel the sharp point of the edge in the palm of his hand. It didn't cut into the flesh, but the pressure was so borderline that it caused a strange tingly feeling in Ivar’s body.

When he raised his gaze to the mirror, two deep blue eyes stared at him, which were in pain-contorted sockets; his brow furrowed slightly, and for a brief moment Ivar felt an uncanny urge to put the knife to his throat and press the blade deep into his skin. Simply to end this miserable existence as a puppet in order to finally be freed from this deep hole from which he could no longer come out on his own. He felt like he was drowning, simply drowning in this eternal vertigo of weakness and fear. He had lost himself on that damn journey on the Silk Road, he had lost his brain, his power, his insolence. His lust for killing. His lust for life.

His eyes slid back down to the knife. It was still cool, and he had unconsciously pressed a little tighter; fine streaks of blood ran into his palm, but he didn't even feel that pain. Because to him, it felt almost as if the hand belonged to a stranger, but certainly not to _him_ , Ivar.

For a brief moment Ivar closed his eyes and pressed the hand with the blade to his chest - he had a choice. Shoot the arrow, press the blade into your throat, or carry on. Go on and on with this life he was given.

And that was exactly what he did. Moments later he had his dull face back on, a face like a wax mask, and brushed his hair to one side so that he could get to the sides of his head. Just to make his hair look beautiful for the man, who last night had squeezed his neck and throat so tightly that he had almost suffocated.

§-----§-----§

The people, Vikings as well as the _Rus_ , were always happy when warriors came back from a distant land and brought the strangest and most beautiful things with them.

Ivar watched the hustle and bustle from the balcony, leaning his crutch against the beautiful balustrade, while little Igor stood by his side and let his curious eyes wander over the crowd.

"They are so many. Look, they even brought slaves over there!”, the little boy muttered excitedly. Ivar let out a low snort and continued to gnaw at the hard sunflower seeds he had brought from his room. His eyes fixed on the long procession of warriors, horses and slaves that slowly entered Kiev, surrounded by people from the streets and people who even stopped their work to see what the warriors had brought with them.

“They always bring slaves with them, that was the case even in our countries back then. Slaves are cheap workers, because they spare the people from the dirty work that nobody wants to do.”, Ivar said unimpressed; he had also cast his gaze over the dark figures chained to the back of a cattle wagon. They wore black cotton coats, most of them had hoods over their heads. Ivar could imagine that it was strange for them to be suddenly in this deep cold and not be able to bury their toes in the desert sand anymore. He himself had never seen or traveled to the warm countries, but he knew from stories that there was as much sand there as there was grassy areas and forest in Kattegat. And like snow in Kiev, tons of snow.

"Do you think they are cold?" Igor asked curiously. His childlike eyes fixed on the crowds below with joy, and it always reminded Ivar a little of himself. He had also always been curious when it came to the fact that other people were worse off than him or were suffering. It was the age-old instinct of people not to turn away in horror and fear, but to see as much of these things as possible. Just like when Ivar had burned a foreign woman to portray her as the witch Lagertha. He had watched the woman slowly crumble into a wrinkled creature, had watched how the flames had literally eaten up the flesh. These impressions had burned themselves deeply into his soul - but today he didn't care about these things anymore. His eyes glided across the courtyard and he found Oleg looking up at them just then; he waved his hand slightly and Ivar nodded.

With a soft sigh, he pushed himself away from the balustrade and gave young Igor a quick run over the head before turning to the door.

"Of course, they are freezing," he said briefly over his shoulder before going to the throne room.

§------§------§

"I know you, _сокровище_."

Ivar cocked his chin slightly and stared at the three men, wrapped in black cotton, who sat on their knees in front of him and Oleg and hung down their heads. No wonder - men from Oleg’s army stood behind them and pressed the tips of their swords to their back of the necks.

"You do?" Ivar answered weakly and slightly hoarse to Oleg’s statement, while the monarch slipped around him with a slight smile and Ivar leaned on his crutch with a firm grip. He took a deep breath, because the way Oleg behaved told him that blood would be flowing today. Whenever he sensed this side of Oleg, Ivar tried to hold back even more - he was always careful to say provocative, but not too rude things, and always focused on the subtle nuances on Oleg's face.

Even now the prince’ smile looked a little sneaky; Ivar could see the slight wrinkle under his nose that he always got when he was restless inside. Ivar wasn't stupid, he could guess why the soldiers were there and why the slaves had their swords on their necks. It was like this morning in front of the mirror, and this thought gave him slight goose bumps which only came off with a soft exhalation. He would have a choice. The choice between life and death.

Ivar swallowed lightly. He felt how Oleg put his heavy and large hand on his shoulder and spoke gently into his ear; Ivar had kept his eyes on the men in front of them, while Oleg’s voice was like a wild bear in his ear.

"I told you, I haven't forgotten your request," the prince said with a slight growl; “And here I have the perfect present for you. You wanted someone to play _Hnefatafl_ with you and the Russian slaves were too stupid for you, remember?"

Oleg’s words sounded rough and a little provocative. Ivar tried to ignore the aggressive undertone in his voice but couldn't quite succeed. He had to bite his tongue briefly so as not to give the prince a hard reply, and it was only after a short swallow that he was ready to answer Oleg, who was curiously observing him.

"Yes, I still remember," he said curtly.

Oleg grinned broadly; his broad fingers clutched Ivar’s shoulder joint a little tighter, and the pressure hurt Ivar a little. Still, he kept quiet and didn't move much apart from a soft nod. The mood in the room had turned from curiosity into a strange tension; it was dead quiet, and yet Ivar could taste the threads of tension in the room. Likewise, the strangely gloomy atmosphere, which certainly did not only come from the rigidly standing soldiers with their swords - no, it was almost as if Death itself had come as a guest and was now watching them all standing in a dark corner.

“And now you can choose one of these men. Two will die because they could be a danger."

"A danger? For what?"

Oleg’s mouth formed a wider grin and he squeezed Ivar’s shoulder joint between his fingers even tighter.

"You'll see. I know you, you are a Viking, you love danger, and these men looked the most dangerous and tallest, so I picked them just for you. They could flee, hence danger. We don't want someone to cut our throats in our sleep, do we?"

Ivar bit his lip hard, then with a gentle movement turned his head slightly to Oleg and gave a crooked grin; luckily, he knew how to at least resolve this strange tension between the two of them. It was kind of sad how well he could read the prince by now, and at the same time was fully aware of what he was actually doing here. He was on his knees no different from the men in front of him - only that every night his danger closed his throat instead of pressing a sword in his neck from behind.

“No slave is capable of such a thing. Even the strongest slaves break in their chains, and you know that too, Oleg.”, Ivar whispered; it didn't escape the corner of his eyes that one of the slaves tensed his shoulders when he heard Ivar’s soft voice - but he didn't care. If he had to choose, he had to choose. He had no choice himself - keeping death out of this room even he couldn't.

Oleg laughed out loud at Ivar’s words. He finally let go of the iron grip on Ivar’s shoulder and nodded curiously to the young Viking.

“Then it's up to you now, my little one. Choose wisely."

With a rough wave of his hand, Oleg indicated to the soldiers that they should tear the hoods off the men, and after the swords were pushed aside just a tiny bit, they tore the hoods off the silent men.

Ivar’s gaze first fell on the first man, who shivered a little and kept his eyes on the ground. The man didn't even lift his head, and Ivar knew from the slightly gray hairlines that he was a little older. His skin was tanned, and he wore the typical appearance of compatriots in the Arab countries - all in all, it was alien to Ivar, and the fact that the man did not even look up made his interest immediately wane. The second man, who sat in the middle, looked up briefly that Ivar could see from his almond brown eyes that he didn't have the intellect he wanted. When Ivar got a little closer to the man in the middle, he didn't flinch, but his gaze slid to the floor so quickly that Ivar let out a soft, barely audible snort.

"They're not particularly good," he said dryly, and his blue eyes slid over to the third and last man with a leisurely look.

He had to grip the grip of his crutch tighter because his hands suddenly became very sweaty. A blink went through his eyes and he had to look twice to make sure the gods weren't playing tricks on him.

The third man stared at him the same way Ivar stared at him - not once did the green-gray eyes deviate from Ivar’s face, even when Ivar looked away briefly. He had to consolidate his stance, because suddenly all feelings tore into his legs and no longer left him standing properly. It had to be a mistake, a pipe dream, a mirage.

Because that this man was sitting here, couldn't and shouldn't be true.

Nobody came back from the dead, _nobody_.

Ivar’s mouth opened softly, and thoughts raced in his head. He tried to make a logical conclusion from what was kneeling in front of his body and was staring at him without blinking an eyelid.

There were coincidences, Ivar knew that - in ancient legends it was said that there was a second half for every human being, and that every human being had an image that was equal to the gods. It had to be the likeness because the dead could _not_ get up. Ivar’s eyes raced frantically over the man’s face again, looking for clues that he was wrong.

But something in him had recognized this man immediately. Sure, he didn't look like he did back then - Ivar could still see his face so clearly that he could never forget it. How often had he watched this face while playing _Hnefatafl_ , studied the features, how often had he held a knife to this cheek and throat, back when he had been still someone? But he looked so much like the man in his memory that Ivar felt heat and cold running down his spine.

He looked more tanned, as if he had spent the last few years in the warm sun, and not in the cold shores of the English seas - or in the grave. His face had hardly gotten more wrinkles over the years, but it still wasn't the same anymore. Next to the scar on his cheek, which Ivar still knew very well - at the time back he had playfully held the point of a knife up to it and slowly slid the knife up and down this gentle growth of the skin - the man in front of him carried another large scar on his face, that ran from above his right eyebrow to below his right eye. It looked like a kind of scar, that as if someone had tried to cut out his eye but the assassination attempt hadn't succeeded; for the scar only covered the browbones and the skin around the eyes, but the eye socket was intact. The hair, it was the same, almost of the same cut, but it was no longer as black as he had remembered it back then. Perhaps the sun had ripened them to a hazel shade, just like the skin. And the eyes. The eyes were the same, so the same that Ivar closed his mouth, which was still open, so as not to reveal to Oleg that he knew exactly who was kneeling in front of him after all these years.

He returned the man's gaze briefly, blinked slightly, and then leaned back to full height on his crutch. He could feel that the internal excitement had left its mark on his face - his cheeks were heated, and he was sure they were bathed in a soft shade of red, stained, because it was always like that when something inside him was terribly upset.

But in addition to the shock that he had this man kneeling in front of him, he came up with an infinite, long-hidden anger. It shot him in all his veins and nerves, and it crawled into his stomach so hard that he wanted to vomit. All the grief that he had then so carefully hidden from his brothers and from the world came up like poisonous bile.

_Heahmund._

_That_ Heahmund, who had sworn to be on his side, _to be the one_ , and then disappeared with the witch Lagertha into the land of the good-for-nothing. Ivar remembered the pain so well it almost took his breath away. How long had he cried with rage in his room at night, punishing his own body for the feelings that had been inside of it and that he had only noticed when Heahmund was gone - all those disgusting, irritating feelings for this Christian warrior who had crawled over his heart like a torrent of salty waves, had stolen his breath, and then drowned his grief in alcohol. He had felt it deeply, and seeing this man he had thought dead in front of him now brought out so much in Ivar that he had always suppressed. He couldn't even put into words the anger he was feeling, and he tried urgently not to show it outward now. But his heart was racing, and it was beating so hard that he felt sick from this feeling. The feeling of betrayal crept up his veins and drove the word _vengeance_ bittersweetly into his head. He had been kind of relieved back then when he had heard that Heahmund had died in battle - for the witch Lagertha could no longer lay a hand on him. And yet it had shown him what kind of feelings the Christian had aroused in _him_ , the merciless Ivar the Boneless.

He pulled himself out of this vortex of thoughts, straightened his forehead and was very careful not to let any of his inner struggle and his shocked feelings come up when he slowly pulled himself back on his crutch to Oleg and gave him a slight smile, even if the Nausea pressed up into his throat.

"And?" Oleg asked amused, and Ivar bit his lip briefly before gesturing in Heahmund’s direction with a disparaging gesture.

"I want that one," he said harshly, and Oleg laughed lightly.

"Why him?"

Ivar hesitated slightly; in his head there were swear words of the worst kind, in every language that he spoke even remotely broken. _Traitor, son of a bitch, lousy pig, witch-fucking bastard._ But he put on his everyday dull mask, briefly ran a hand over his carefully braided hair and nodded in the direction of the traitor.

“He's strong and stubborn, you can see that in his eyes. He also seems to have more on his mind than the others, because they ignored me like a rock. I only want him. You can drown the others, or whatever. I don’t care.”, Ivar snarled so hard that he internally urged himself to be calmer; it was still Oleg to whom he spoke these words, and not that Christian son of a whore.

But Oleg seemed to like this rough tone of Ivar, because for a moment his eyes stayed stubbornly on the young Viking, who was still so pissed off by his feelings inside that he couldn't bring himself to smile. Then two strong fingers rose, and there was the sharp sound of heavy swords plunging into human bodies.

Ivar watched it. He watched closely as the men shouted something in Arabic before the tips of the swords pierced their necks and took all their lives away from them in one fell swoop. The swords came back through the bottom of their throats, and Ivar watched with an almost manic look as the blood of the second man rudely spurted on Heahmund's face. But the Christian didn't move - he was still staring at Ivar with such a penetrating look that Ivar cocked his chin and swallowed his pride so as not to give the pathetic traitor a precious second of his attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- мой принц means my prince.  
> \- сокровище means treasure, like darling.
> 
> If I ever forget to mention something or translate something wrong, feel free to send me a message. :)


	3. Old Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actually, this chapter was planned for next Monday, but since I have little time on the weekend, I thought that maybe one or two people would be happy about a weekend update. Today we travel a little back into Heahmund's past - I thought it would be nice to see his path, which is completely different from what one might expected. I thought about telling a little bit about his way to the Rus in each chapter. If you feel like you don't like it, feel free to contact me. I think Oleg's POV is too much, because this story will be fully packed anyway.  
> As warned, it's all slow build! As the story progresses, we will meet some other "ghosts of the past" who will turn Ivar's life upside down. Poor little thing.   
> As always, the few Russian words below are translated. :)

** Old Scars **

He breathed in so suddenly and so hard that his lungs almost burst; something scratchy that felt like dirt had collected in his mouth and throat and made him cough more than violently. In these almost suffocated seconds, an indescribable pain shot through his entire body and caused him to push himself up miserably: Heahmund rolled onto his side with his last strength and spat everything, including a large amount consisting of a mixture of dirt and blood, onto the muddy ground below him.

It took him a while to realize where he was - it smelled of death and thick clouds of mist ran through the entire field of vision. It took Heahmund even longer to realize what had happened and why his body was screaming so hard in pain. The haunted trembling of his limbs didn't stop, not even as he pressed himself back to the cool, wet ground with a soft gasp. He was finished, he was punished with death. But was this hell? Was it the paradise he had read about for so long and believed in all his life? There were screams in the distance, and the cruel smell of decaying flesh no longer got away from Heahmund's nose. He still had to live, if halfway. Not yet dead, and yet not quite alive, caught in the gloomy fog of an abandoned battle. But where were the Living?

It took Heahmund a long time to find the strength to lean at least a little on his aching forearms and gasp for air, even if the blood and dirt were still stuck to his lips and inside his mouth and left him with no feeling for his senses. His head was pounding, and his heart was beating slower than he had ever felt it in his entire life. Until now he hadn't dared to look down his body for fear of the wounds he might expect from this stabbing pain. The air grew cooler and a soft wind came up from the north, which gently stroked Heahmund's neck and made him tremble even more violently. The memories came back slowly, memories of war, of the immense battle and the deep inner conflict he had felt; especially regarding Lagertha. He vaguely remembered a pointed object, certainly a sword, which had pierced his body violently and had brought him to his knees with a scream. And had given him the greatest pain of his entire life, bone-crushing and absolutely unbearable. He couldn't remember how he had fallen - it was almost as if his otherwise strong body had simply switched itself off from one breath to the next. As if God himself had simply torn his soul out of his body.

But where was God if he wasn't here in this half-dead hell; why was Heahmund awake and breathing? He let out a horrible gasping grunt that still sounded very slimy - he must have a lot of blood in his lungs, which made it difficult for him to breathe immeasurably. Yet Heahmund pushed himself up with another pained gasp until he was finally seated; and his stomach ached so badly that he screamed easily.

When he dared to look down for the first time, with one eye half closed, he saw a severely bleeding wound and a broken arrowhead that stuck under his ribs and burned terribly. Heahmund had fought many battles and had been injured many times before - but that near-fatal injury was even too much for _his_ head in itself, and he had to bend to one side to vomit, dull and blood-soaked, with the putrid smell of the Dead around him.

It took several hours, well into deep twilight, before Heahmund was able to get up and stagger through the battlefield like a half-dead man. He knew the rules of war - the dead lingered here in the field for one night, found their infinite peace until they were fetched away the next day.

And that was exactly what he was now avoiding, completely externally controlled. He didn't want to be found, he didn't want to immerse himself in the dead everyday life of his church, now that he knew what death tasted like and how dying felt in his bones. Let them believe that he died in this massacre, that his corpse was cut up, eaten by wolves or pagans. His head was strangely blank at this thought, strangely blank and dull focused on just breathing and walking. He took one faint step in front of the other, panting and weak, but he walked. On and on, further and further into the mist of England, and he never turned back. He didn't follow any direction, it was his body and his legs that carried him blindly towards the forest, that blindly carried him back into his life and did not let him take a break once. What his body had shown in terms of weakness when dying, he now caught up again in gentle walking. But despite the bitterly bleeding wounds and his face caked with mud and blood, he kept walking. Something inside drove him on, a strange, eating and biting feeling that found itself again and again in the soft nerves of his neck and seemed to compel him; like an invisible thread of ultimate last strength.

Heahmund was used to thanking God for everything that had happened in his life, and all his life he had been used to explaining everything with him, to decorate everything with the halo. But that he managed to land half dead and more than weak on the coast of a sea that had been not far from the battlefield - whatever it was that had done this miracle, this time it had not been God. It was pure blasphemy that stabbed him in the face with the glow of the sun and forced him to his knees in the face of the wide sea and the infinite horizon. His weak and bloody knees sank in the deep and rough sand, and with the last strings of his strength he could see a ship in the distance with a flag that was foreign to him. Whether they were pagans - he didn't know. Whether it was English or the devil himself, he didn't know and somehow didn't want to know. Whoever it was - Heahmund didn't notice it anymore, because in those moments, speckled by the cool sun in the morning, his last strength ran out and his body passed out again, even if his last thought this time was - strangely enough - that it didn't feel like dying, but like arriving.

§------§-------§

Long after he had gone to bed slightly drunk, Oleg snoring next to him, Ivar felt the anger and hatred rush through his veins. He was on his back with his head softly on the pillow, chewing his lower lip; meanwhile so violent that light shreds of the skin had come off. But he didn't mind the slightly burning pain - he was too absorbed in thought of the Christian and his sudden appearance in this distant land.

Ivar could clearly remember two moments that had torn half his heart out so long ago: once it was the battle in which he had asked Hvitserk where Heahmund was; and Hvitserk had responded with a slight shrug that a Saxon bishop would fight on the other side, by Lagertha and Bjorn's side. And the second time it was when Hvitserk had told him in another battle that Heahmund had fallen. Both moments had given the young Viking a violent feeling of nausea, had made him almost soft inside. If it hadn't been for the anger that had always had everything in his life under control, that had always controlled and disciplined everything. Back then, on his beautiful chariot and with the army behind his neck, Ivar had merely pulled the corners of his mouth down and knitted his eyebrows - without another word, so as not to show any of them what he had really felt. Because it was the first time in his life that his heart had been broken properly. Sure, he had cried when Floki had left and when Ragnar had died, he had cried bitterly. But this time it had been the first time that he had felt something good and beautiful, something exciting for a stranger - and _he_ had simply left, although Ivar had trusted him. At night, when no one heard him, Ivar had often screamed and howled because of it, wrapping his own pain in anger and locking and hiding it far from the world. And with a cry he had sworn to himself that he would never think of the Christian again, never let him even begin to get into his head again.

It had taken him a long time before he had admitted to himself that he had been madly in love back then. And he had never felt that feeling again afterwards. He had downright forbidden himself to ever get closer to a person in this way. Because that was what he could do best: lock up, forget and drown everything in anger until it was pitifully suffocated.

But today, when this man had knelt in front of him in the same position as so many years ago, something in Ivar had been terribly mixed up for a tiny, fragile moment. It were old feelings, hatred and anger that had crept up out of nowhere, out of the deep hole into which Ivar had thrown these feelings back then. He was completely taken by surprise at the sight of the man he had not only killed in his mind, but who had also been officially declared dead. People had seen him die; Ivar had heard several people. He should have been dead! Then what did he do in the Arab countries? And was alive as ever? Something must have gone very wrong, and although he could hardly breathe inside because of the anger and disgust at this man, he couldn't stop his curiosity either. There was one thing he would definitely want to know: how did one get back from those who were believed dead?

When Oleg slowly turned in his direction, still snoring gently and resting his heavy arm on Ivar’s stomach, Ivar had to swallow hard. With a soft gasp, he stared at the ceiling, chewed his lip a little more, and tried to banish all his anger into his dreams. He barely got any sleep that night, however, and it wasn't until the first, soft streaks of cool sunlight shone through the window that he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

§------§-------§

The next morning Ivar woke up drenched in sweat and most of all alone in bed. His body felt heavy, sticky, and somehow strangely sluggish; it took him a moment to come to a clear thought as he carefully started to massage his narrow and stunted calves, which hurt a little more today than usual. His dreams had been dark, full of shadowy creatures and a being that had followed him constantly. Ivar hadn't been able to tell what kind of animal it was, but his instincts had only hammered one word into his head: run.

He let out a deep breath and leaned back in bed for a moment; the pillow was still warm and a little damp, but it was good for his head. When he got out of bed after a while and sat down in front of the mirror to do his hair, as he did every morning, he found his own reflection in the mirror just terrible. He had deep, dark circles on the normally soft skin under his eyes, and one could see clearly that he had done everything last night but had not slept. A slight wave of anger ran through his body, but he tried to direct this anger onto his fingers, which were already winding strand by strand through the dark brown hair to braid the tight braids on his head. At least today he was satisfied with his hairstyle, at least a small ray of hope in the otherwise dreary everyday life.

He couldn't find Oleg or his henchmen at breakfast, and they weren't in the great hall either. Ivar, almost offended, leaned on his crutch when he had stormed the great hall and tried, with a slight frown, to figure out where in Odin's name everyone had gone. The russian slaves had been there, but no trace of the men who were everywhere else. Even the guards in the hallway had been withdrawn, and as Ivar hobbled down the long hallway to the gate to the courtyard, he could hear a loud growl in the distance - it must clearly have come from the men, and with a more than annoyed hiss Ivar pulled himself through the long way through the hallway over to the gate, which was a little open and let in a little bit of the cool air. He was actually glad that he was wearing his rabbit fur around his shoulders, because it would keep him warm and it certainly served as a protection if he wanted to hide his angry lines around his mouth so that Oleg couldn't see them. It was strange for Ivar not to have seen the prince this morning; there was always something pressing in his stomach when he couldn't determine what mood the prince was in today.

He followed the loud roars and cheers until he came to the round courtyard; the hard ground was good for his crutch, and he opened his mouth slightly and propped his body up when he saw the goings-on in the middle of the courtyard.

A great many of Oleg’s soldiers had lined up in a circle, and the prince himself was sitting on a raised platform with a glass of wine and seemed overly amused about something. His face was happy, almost a little glee, and Ivar’s stomach calmed a little. Even while he was pushing through the crowd and walking past the many people to Oleg, he could not get rid of the strange feeling that something was not going at all as he would have liked it. It was only when he had hoisted himself and the crutch onto the platform, with a little more effort than usual, that he saw the reason for this senseless commotion in the morning: the Arab slaves were in the midst of the soldiers, and they were evidently being forced to fight against each other.

Ivar snorted roughly as he sat down on an upholstered chair next to Oleg and watched the scene sullenly; he could see the hazel hair from here, too, as it shone in the cool sunlight and let nothing but bile flow up Ivar's throat.

"What the fuck is going on here, my dear prince?" he snarled at Oleg, who had his deep brown eyes still fixed on the center of the courtyard - the prince raised two fingers because he wanted to see the fight continue, and Ivar hissed softly. He didn't like what was going on here. Not only had he had a terrible night and Oleg had been strange this morning, no: now he was also making these Arab slaves fight for sheer pleasure, as if he hadn't shed enough blood yesterday. Ivar ran a light hand through his carefully braided hair and stared into the center of the courtyard, where two relatively dark-skinned men were fighting; they weren't pure fighters or warriors, Ivar could see it clearly in the way they wielded their rusty swords. They were afraid and the screaming of the Russian men only seemed to unsettle them even more.

“I thought they should widen the trench, and now you let them kill each other, Oleg. How am I supposed to understand that?”, Ivar muttered roughly, and he turned his gaze back to Oleg. The prince looked bright and when his eyes fixed on Ivar, he even smiled.

“One of the soldiers came to me this morning and told me that one of the slaves is a true master in battle, he probably wanted to free himself last night. Guess which one."

Ivar’s subsequent snort sounded so loud that one of the soldiers standing nearby turned around to him; only when Ivar looked at him angrily, did he turn around back again.

And of course, he knew which of the pathetic slaves was the best fighter. It grew into his stomach with a tingly hot shot when he glanced at Heahmund, who was just getting ready for the next round. All they had given him was an old, rusty sword and a wooden shield that looked more than damaged; but even in his slave clothes Heahmund had not lost the warrior's charm. One could tell that he had been a combatant - his bright eyes fixed on his opponents like a predator, and Ivar recalled long-buried memories of old times. Times when Heahmund still wore black armor and wielded his large, incredibly valuable sword.

For a moment he closed his eyes and swallowed this memory - it had seemed like food that was swallowed too hot, slowly crawling down his throat. Like an animal that wanted to cling to its esophagus so as not to die miserably in its stomach.

“Your slave's turn comes next. He is really good! I'm impressed, once again you had a fine sense of good quality.", Oleg said, amused, and motioned for the slaves to change positions and let the next ones fight. Ivar snorted again; he felt pathetic. It was humiliation to watch Heahmund jump around alive in front of his nose as if he were no longer the old man Ivar had cursed so long ago. Still, he didn't answer Oleg - suddenly he didn't feel like speaking at all anymore.

Heahmund stepped into the middle, accompanied by some cheering - the Russian soldiers already seemed to know him, for they celebrated him like a hero.

Ivar felt sick from the spectacle - his lips curled up and his mood plummeted. With a soft movement and a barely audible exhalation, he pressed his chin into the delicate rabbit fur, and it felt wonderful against his cool skin.

His eyes were focused on Heahmund, despite internal anger. The latter was meanwhile in the middle and struck his sword against the shield. The former warrior's eyes darted up to Ivar for just a moment - seconds in which Ivar's stomach turned. But just as quickly the big slave looked away again and challenged his counterpart with a rough head movement. His body still looked good, if not better than Ivar’s broken memory; broad shoulders like Oleg's, and through the rather short sleeves Ivar could see strong forearms, hardened from the fight. His legs had not forgotten the firm, strong step and stance, and Ivar was almost a little excited when Heahmund’s opponent approached him. The former warrior kept his eyes on the man, never taking his eyes off him for a second.

When it started it was a spectacle, even if Ivar still hid the downward corners of his mouth in the rabbit fur so that Oleg wouldn't see him in a bad mood. But the prince seemed to be just as troubled inside as Ivar, only that with him it was the excitement of the fight. The prince had his body under tension, Ivar could even feel it all the way to his own body; there was a lot of emotion flowing there right now.

Heahmund was damn good at what he was doing there. The other Arab had no chance from the start, so there was no need to foresee the end of the fight. His blows with the sword were extremely precise and hard, and even when he got a cut on his upper arm that easily tore the fabric of his shirt, it only incited the Christian even more to rush forward and want to kill the person opposite. Ivar’s eyebrows rose slightly in astonishment when he saw black ink on Heahmund’s skin; from a distance it almost looked as if they were tattoos working their way down there on the upper arm, but through the blood and the hectic and hard fighting movements Ivar couldn't quite see it.

Inevitably, at the sight of Heahmund, his thoughts drifted slightly into the past. It struck him like lightning when he suddenly remembered the Battle of York, when he had had one of the high points of his career as a general and when Heahmund had entered his life for the first time. And how he had - Ivar could still feel the goose bumps on the back of his neck when the great warrior had stepped onto the battlefield so impressively in front of his eyes and had dominated it immediately. It had been an impressive fight, on horseback and later strong on his own two feet. This man had tied Ivar incredibly back then because he would have seen himself on the battlefield if he had had good and strong legs. And even when another wave of anger and nausea stung his stomach, Ivar watched the fight curiously.

It didn't really take long before the fight was over. Although the other Arab had actually managed to knock his old, rusty sword out of Heahmund's hand, with a roar from the audience, Heahmund only put on a mischievous grin. He said something in Arabic to his opponent that Ivar did not understand - it sounded dark and harsh, and hearing Heahmund speak in that harsh language triggered something disgustingly warm in Ivar's stomach - and with one quick and sudden movement Heahmund tore his wooden shield up and hit the Arab's chin so hard that his head was thrown far upwards, followed and accompanied by a violently spurting amount of dark blood that splattered even onto Oleg's shoes. Ivar’s eyes focused first on the blood, then on Oleg - he expected the prince to stop his amused laugh immediately, but he just clapped his hands and nodded to Heahmund.

The crowd hooted and cheered, and Heahmund threw away his shield with one rough movement. Ivar’s stomach tingled wildly as the former warrior turned towards the dais, very slowly and deliberately. With a soft exhale, Ivar bit his lip, pressing his face a little more into the rabbit fur - when Heahmund first stared at Oleg and then at him. To look at those eyes that were believed to be dead caused more than tension and hatred in Ivar’s body; but what the Christian did afterwards, Ivar immediately took personally, and he had to pull himself together hard to avoid forcing his sharp crutch into the heart of the Christian.

Memory and present came together as the blood-spattered Heahmund made the same mocking, provocative bow to Ivar that he had done back in York so many years ago, when Ivar had given him his horse. It was the same gesture, and also the same facial expression, paired with mockery and derision, and in these seconds, Ivar clawed his fingers so tightly into the wooden seat that he was surprised that none of his nails broke off.

_Now_ he was sure who in Odin's name he was here in front of him, and who had really dared to rise from the dead just to pursue Ivar to the end of the world. Something hot boiled over in Ivar’s stomach, and his teeth bared slightly as he returned Heahmund’s mocking look with hatred - he could not even begin to describe the feelings this gesture triggered in him. It was more than a slap in the face, it was more than mockery, more than humiliation. It was almost as if Ivar was being brutally drawn back into his own warped past, and it was only Heahmund's fault. In those seconds Ivar couldn't hide his hateful gaze from Oleg either, and the feeling of being watched only became boiling hot and clear in his body when Oleg addressed him from the side with a broad grin. It was only very reluctantly that Ivar looked away from Heahmund, who was still standing in the middle, and directed himself to Oleg. He did his best inside to straighten his facial expressions at least a little, but he couldn't hide the frown on his forehead.

"He amuses me," Oleg uttered; his eyes wandered deliberately over Ivar’s face, and Ivar licked his lips briefly with a heavy exhalation.

"He's impudent." Ivar hissed, releasing the spasmodic pressure of his fingers around the wooden lean of the chair; he saw clearly that Oleg was aware of it, and the prince put on another smile, which Ivar could not fully interpret in his anger. It looked mischievous, but Ivar was careful.

“You picked him well. I want to have fights like this every week, they are fun for the soldiers."

“No, Oleg. You told me I can choose one man to play _Hnefatafl_ with me. I have chosen him - he is my gift. You promised it to me.", Ivar growled, and tried to hold back inwardly. But it was terribly difficult for him, because the disgusting, torn feelings didn’t stop in any way. They ate him up and he got terribly nervous in this chair, with Oleg’s brown eyes on him and Heahmund in the corner of his eye.

But Oleg just bit his lip lightly and reached out one of his fingers to slide it lightly under Ivar’s chin; Ivar looked back at Oleg, but the back of his neck tingled because he knew Heahmund could see it. But he had to keep calm, he couldn't forget that Heahmund was a stranger to him here. So, Ivar let out a deep breath and focused his gaze on Oleg, who wore a crooked grin in the corner of his mouth.

“I know, _дорогой_. But he won't die because he can even use an old, stupid shield to kill everybody around him."

"What about your trench?"

Oleg laughed softly, then lifted Ivar’s chin higher; the prince's eyes sparkled.

"We will need every man in the future, and a trench is just a trench."

Ivar opened his full lips softly, and wanted to reply something: but then he thought of all the evenings when he had tears in his eyes with pain and anger, with slices of fresh ginger on his cheek because Oleg had hit him for his insolence - and then he just nodded gently and said quietly " _да_ ", even if he hated himself for this weakness, and he hated himself even more from today because he had again been held up to the mirror of the past with Heahmund. That he was shown again what had become of him - in the past he would have had Heahmund's head chopped off for his behavior, and today he sat here, wrapped in rabbit fur to hide his shy anger and to nod to the man who held him firmly and mercilessly took his freedom.

Something thick swelled up in his throat as he gently pulled away from Oleg’s fingers, only to bury himself in the fur again with a soft sigh. When the soldiers carried Heahmund and the rest of the slaves away, the pain pounded so hard in Ivar’s heart that he could hardly bear it any longer. That lunchtime he drank a lot of _vodka_ to numb those terrible feelings. Almost like Oleg.

§------§------§

He closed his eyes tightly and mumbled gently in his head again what he wanted to say. He had things figured out in his head, things he wanted to scream in the face of that _witch-fucking bastard_ \- things he should have said back then, things that have burned on his soul since then. Ivar let out a deep breath and let his head droop a little. He stood in front of the door of the basement room in which Heahmund was held and to which Oleg had sent him amused so that he could personally inspect his _present_ , all alone. If Oleg knew what was really going on here - Ivar snorted softly at the thought as he imagined it - then the prince would probably have the entire palace burned down. Fortunately, he didn't know, and Ivar, as always, had to face this task alone. When he put his hand on the handle of the door, he inevitably had to swallow a little; it was so strange to have this person in front of him again, so alive and yet so distant. It was like a nightmare brought to life - maybe because Ivar had angered the gods. Was this a punishment for him?

But he pulled himself together and, in those seconds, swore to himself that he wanted to be the strong Viking again when he stepped through this door - he could not give himself the nakedness in front of Heahmund to appear _weak_. No, he had to be strong, because he was the one at liberty - in a way - and Heahmund was again the slave in chains. He just had to say this thought to himself often enough, and he did so when he opened the door with a light exhalation and walked into the cool room, leaning on his crutch.

Heahmund sat with his back against one of the cool stone walls, one leg stretched out and the other bent; his right arm was above his knee, while the other arm disappeared somewhere in the straw that lay on the ground. He had a thick chain around his neck, and Ivar blinked at first - it brought up so many old memories to see him like this. But he couldn't allow himself to be deterred, and he swore all his anger back into his veins until he bit his lip firmly and eyed Heahmund with an angry look. The former warrior did not look at him angrily; the gray-green eyes wandered provocatively up and down Ivar’s body, and he actually dared to put on a slight smile on his lips. _That he even dared to..._

Ivar was just about to throw a deep-seated, particularly depressing swear word at him when Heahmund took all the wind out of his sails and said very dryly: "You have grown, Ivar."

It was the pure shock at these words that opened Ivar’s lips, very slowly, and then closed them again at the same moment: he had not expected this. He hadn't expected anything at all when he had stepped through this door - but hearing Heahmund’s voice first, so clear and rough in this room, made him feel sick. He forced himself not to throw up now, since he had already made himself a complete idiot today; his body was weak. So weak that Ivar cursed himself inside. He had to dig deep into his body to find out how to form words with his mouth again - the memories and the feeling of anger took away all sensitivity to his own body.

“And you're a slave again. Isn't it nicer for you to be dead?", Ivar croaked towards him, and cursed himself for his words in the same moment. So, there it was - no swear word, no _traitor, wimp,_ or _bastard_. Just his rough voice, which was far too quiet for this room, far too quiet for everything he wanted to throw at him. Ivar immediately wanted to go somewhere else, anywhere, into every battle, into bed with Oleg, it didn't matter, he just not wanted to be here. He stared at Heahmund the same way as he was looking at him - he looked so different, and yet not a bit changed. The new scar made him much more dangerous, and yet the mop of brown hair that fell very lightly on the base of his forehead gave him a certain lightness. There was something different about this man, but it couldn't be explained, not even when he narrowed his eyes slightly and studied Heahmund carefully. Physically he wasn't much different from the Heahmund, whom he had tied up so many years ago - but inside something seemed so damn different.

Heahmund snorted slightly amused at Ivar’s words, and leaned the back of his head back against the stone wall. He was still staring at Ivar, and Ivar returned that look with all the hatred he could get inside his sour stomach. He wanted to say so much - but somehow at the same time the unfounded fear crept into him, Oleg could put his ear to the door and listen, and would have the two killed within seconds.

"Dying is not as beautiful as you might imagine."

"Oh, is that so? Well, you have to know. It's just funny that you're still alive. I would have been happy to see you lying in a pit of mud.”, Ivar snarled; he gripped the grip of his crutch tighter and pulled the corners of his mouth down while still glaring at Heahmund.

“Believe me, I'm just as unhappy to be here. You could have chosen one of the other slaves, but apparently, they weren't good enough for you.", Heahmund replied.

Ivar snorted loudly; he licked his lips briefly and took a step towards Heahmund. “Believe me, it would have been nicer for you to die with the sword in the neck. You will suffer because you are nothing more than a filthy piece of garbage that has been carted out of the desert. How did you get there anyway, huh? Did your God bring you there?"

Heahmund raised an eyebrow and laughed softly; Ivar tried to stifle the hot tingling in his stomach. He felt so sick that he had to swallow several times to keep himself from vomiting.

"An exciting story, I would like to note."

"Ah, as exciting as your worthless death, I suppose? You can tell it to the wall behind you, you will spend a lot of time together.", Ivar growled, and was almost perplexed when Heahmund gave a harsh, wild laugh that echoed in the damp and cool walls and became like a film of moisture put on Ivar's skin.

"Among all the people from the past, I would never have believed that _our_ paths would just cross again, Ivar." Heahmund uttered, and Ivar just furrowed his eyebrows. He didn't know what was wrong with him - he had so much anger in himself today, so much hatred of the damned past, but Heahmund’s easy-going manner took all leeway from him. A little of his pride choked softly in his throat, but he cocked his chin and snorted lightly.

“Enjoy it for so long, because you won't live long enough to be completely happy about it. Not as long as I am here, and you are mine."

"I am yours?"

“Yes, you are mine. A present from the prince for me. And I can do with you what I want to, and nobody will stop me.”

Heahmund raised one of his eyebrows and let out a slight snort; he looked directly at Ivar, and apparently didn't care too much about those words.

“I don’t belong to anybody.”, he said curtly, and Ivar bit his lower lip hard.

“We will see, Heahmund. And this time you can't steal away with your _damned whore_ Lagertha, because she'll be definitely dead by now.", Ivar hissed angrily, and when Heahmund's eyebrows rose again, he couldn't stand it anymore and immediately turned around to pull himself directly out of the room. Something ugly burned his throat that had been hiding in there for years - something that years ago had clung to his heart and had made and left deep marks - _jealousy_.

The same jealousy that had sprung up years ago when he had found out about the betrayal. Ivar had never meant to tell Heahmund this, because it had made himself vulnerable. But his stupid, damned, forgotten jealousy had slipped out first and most poisonous, and in the hallway, Ivar pressed his forehead against the cold wall and sighed deeply. He had sounded like a woman, like an old, miserable woman. It had to be the _vodka_ , or his mood, he didn't know. Inside he was more than torn, more than confused. What had become of him? He didn't recognize himself, and having this man with him now seemed to bring out his weakest sides. Disgusting sides. Forgotten sides of a long thrown away life back then.

"Prince Ivar?"

A servant's soft voice tore him from his thoughts, and Ivar turned slightly in her direction; she looked at him uncertainly, but Ivar just snorted and nodded slightly.

“Prince Oleg wants to see you. He's waiting in your room. I'm supposed to pass this on."

She handed him a full bottle of wine, which Ivar accepted without a word and with numb fingers. Alcohol was just right for him now, because it would stifle all the disgusting feelings in him - like Oleg’s hands, which he knew would be choking around his neck in an hour at the latest, and today he was even looking forward to it. Because it would make him forget for a few moments at least what terrible ghosts from the past that day had brought up today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- дорогой is darling  
> \- да means yes

**Author's Note:**

> \- борщ is borscht, which is a traiditonal russian kind of soup.  
> \- дьявол means devil.  
> \- зеркало means mirror.  
> \- "Да, мой принц." is "Yes, my Prince."  
> \- да means yes.


End file.
